Chronicles of the Shadowscale
by King Endercreeper
Summary: The Argonians are a feared and hated people across most of Tamriel. When Azeez-ei, a young assassin-in-training, finds himself abandoned and alone in the world, he sets out on a journey that he never anticipated. Though the main continent of Nirn is vast and dangerous, his greatest trial will not be surviving his quest- It will be discovering what he was put in this world to do.


It was a hundred degrees in the shade.

The sun struggled to reach with its golden fingers past the long, willowy branches of the trees, but the swampland below stayed dark, as it had since time immemorial. The bayou was silent, save for the trilling and buzzing of insects no scientist had ever bothered to name. Vile creatures laid still, hidden among the muck and reeds and shadows. The scene might have been considered by some to be peaceful, in a dark, dangerous sort of way.

But the fleeting tranquility of the swamp wouldn't last for long. A terrible, invasive noise began to fill the air, and it became louder and louder. Even the insects began to be drowned out. It was an unnatural sound, a rumbling, splashing, squelching sound, one that greatly displeased every last native creature within five miles with its interruption.

It was the sound of men wading through the Black Marsh.

* * *

General Langdon Prandus led his soldiers through the muck. They were garbed in their boiled leather armor, and each felt as though they were being boiled themselves. Their weapons lay sheathed or hanging from their backs. They were much too tired to hold them. Prandus was more miserable than most, though he tried not to show it.

It felt like mud, slime, and worse substances had infiltrated every inch of his fine steel armor. The metal burned his slick and sweaty skin, heated by the climate of this gods-forsaken mud-hole.

Prandus looked around, wincing from the feeling of his greasy skin rubbing against the hot metal, panting heavily in spite of himself.

 _Sweet Mara,_ he thought, _I hope that Carylac is nearby._

He remembered receiving his instructions from the Commander. "Listen, Prandus", he had said. "These men are exhausted and war-weary, and Carylac is crucial if we want a swift campaign. I need to lead you to lead them through personally, Langdon. I'm counting on you. Don't fail me, or, more importantly, your Empire."

Prandus wished that he could have led another part of the campaign, but who was he to refuse? And so, here he was, trudging through this little plane of Oblivion reserved especially for him and his troops. He grimly recalled what had already transpired on the trek.

Over ninety of his thousand soldiers were already dead, and they hadn't even reached their destination! A combination of exhaustion, extreme heat, disease, and wild beasts was surely taking its toll. And, if some of the other generals that had been here longer were to be believed, those numbers were lucky! _More_ people usually died!

The Knahaten Flu that had ravaged much of southern Tamriel had originated here. Though cases of the plague hadn't been reported in nearly three hundred years, many of the men still feared catching it. Fear of the plague, coupled with actual sicknesses in many cases, made Black Marsh Oblivion on Nirn for the members of the Legion.

He tried to console himself. According to his navigators, Carylac was only a short way away now. Prandus remembered his orders. _Make your way to Carylac, the largest and most advanced settlement in South-eastern Argonia. Capture it. Then send a messenger back to the main camp. Finally, wait for the army's arrival._

It sounded _so_ simple. Simple but _impossible_! They were going to die out here. _He_ was going to die out here.

He turned his eyes downward, looking through the eyeholes of his grimy steel helmet at the churning brown mess under his boots. He felt another bead of sweat roll sluggishly down his face and drip out the bottom of his helm. He'd never felt more miserable in his life. He glanced up, wearily searching the limited horizon within his hazy field of vision. Nothing. His head sank painfully down.

It shot up again. Prandus stared, nostrils flaring beneath the metal. Far up ahead, sunlight finally broke through, into the biggest clearing Prandus had yet seen. There, glimmering with shining wet moss, was a stone wall. Prandus remembered that Carylac happened to be surrounded by a stone wall. For the first time, hope flickered in his chest. Could it be?

"Le-jun! Halt!" He yelled hoarsely, holding up a shaking metal fist. It took a second for the command to register. Then, the exhausted troops stumbled to a stop, looking more like zombies than legionaries. Prandus watched bleary-eyed as his captains organized their respective divisions out of the shapeless mass of humanity.

After a few minutes, Prandus' army stood at the ready, ill and weary, sure, but not beaten. Prandus felt a flush of pride. His soldiers were tough, some of the best the Empire had to offer. They had been with him through thick and thin, and they had made it to Carylac. His elation diminished somewhat as he saw a few men stealthily picking fat leeches off of their legs. He shuddered.

Why had Emperor Septim wanted to capture here, of all places? It wasn't as though the rest of Tamriel _wanted_ to add this putrid place to the list of "civilized" provinces. Sure, he could see some potential benefits from ruling Elsweyr- the filthy cat-men _could_ produce things besides skooma- sugarcane and whatnot. But he was positive that _this_ place didn't have a single redeeming quality.

He spotted a large island nearby, a perfect spot to make camp… or at least it would be, after clearing out all of the wildlife, of course. Islands always had crocodiles. Always. Prandus' brow furrowed. His men needed to conserve and replenish their energy, or they would never be able to take the city, if/when the need arose.

They would need to make this fairly quick. There was no way that they had enough resources to lay siege to the place. They would have to rest on the island and attack in the morning. He was eager to get past that wall. That city had food, clean water, and real shelter. Not to mention that it was raised above the marshland. He could hardly remember what it felt like to be dry.

Of course, dry was a relative term in this wretched place. The air was practically humid enough to drink. But it would be infinitely better than wading through this _sewage_. That thought alone was enough to make Prandus want to run to the city and beg to be let in.

He shook his head, squaring his shoulders. No. He had a job to do.

* * *

Prandus strode up to the city, his troops waiting behind him. Though the mud was thick and clung to his metal boots, but he did his best to walk with the dignified stride of a General in the Imperial Army. He had to make an impression, both on his men and on the natives. Prandus silently thanked the Divines that he was in the sun again. He felt a little better already.

The City of Carylac was based upon an island, the largest for miles. Compared to back home in Cyrodiil, it was barely big enough to even be considered a city. If Prandus' army had been tasked to capture a settlement of similar size almost anywhere else, it would have been a simple matter. But this was not Cyrodiil, and the citizens were not men _or_ elves.

He walked up the beach. Directly ahead of him, he could see the glint of the dark metal gate. He realized with a start that there were figures watching him from the top of the stone wall. As he drew nearer, he got a clearer look at the… _things_ watching his progress up the soggy land. There was no doubt about it. They were Argonians.

Prandus grimaced beneath the steel, and it wasn't just because his foot had squished into a particularly deep mud puddle.

The natives were terrible to behold. They were shaped mostly like men or mer, upright, with two arms and two legs. But that was about where the similarities ended. They were covered in dark, slimy-looking scales, and the ends of their gauntlets were open, exposing long, black claws. Holes were cut in the seats of their pants, allowing scaly tails to poke through.

Their faces ranged in appearance from crocodilian to almost… birdlike, and their eyes flashed like bronze coins. Prandus looked with mild surprise at their armor. Most of tribes the Empire had already conquered during the invasion had been quite primitive; their weapons and apparel had been crafted mostly from bones and leather. But these ones were different. They wore intricately carved armor crafted from bamboo, covered in places with metal plating for extra protection. It vaguely reminded Prandus of Akiviri-style armor. Their weapons ranged from swords to bows to war-hammers, all of which seemed crafted in a jagged, spike-ridden style.

Prandus' Legion stood behind him; his legates were trying to get them to keep up the image of an able fighting force, and he was pleased to say they were doing an excellent job. They were nearly unrecognizable. They stood tall, boldly, ready to die for their Empire.

As he got within twenty feet of the wall, he stopped. He looked up towards the battlements at the Argonians above him. He cleared his throat, and begun.

"My name is General Prandus of the Imperial Army. My orders, given to me by Commander Drakius, right hand to Emperor Septim himself, are to capture this settlement. This need not end in violence. If you surrender now, we will be lenient to you. We just ask that you allow us and our advancing comrades to occupy our fine city for a time." Prandus nearly choked on the words "fine city".

He didn't know much about argonian facial expressions, but he was fairly certain that they looked outraged. One of them stepped forward, a snarl on his scaly face. "You are mistaken!" He (or he supposed it could be a she. The women were as flat-chested as the men) hissed in a chilling, serpentine voice. "We will never surrender to warm-bloods like you, trespasser! Argonia belongs to the Saxhleel!"

Prandus composed himself. Diplomacy was the best answer. His men were strong, but the Argonians were in better shape, physically and psychologically. They needed to get to safety.

"I beg you to reconsider", he called, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. "I am afraid that, while your warriors are undoubtedly fearsome, this will only end in us occupying the city, one way or another! Please, let us reach an accord, so that there will be no pointless bloodshed!"

The same Argonian who had spoken before responded angrily. "Arrogant man!" He snarled. "You dare trespass here, in our homeland?! Your ancestors and the cursed elves have already confined us to our one province, when we were once one of the greatest kingdoms on Tamriel! And yet, here you stand, demanding that we surrender our motherland too!? What need has Tiber Septim, or any of you, for a land you have no idea how to use? We know what you warm-bloods call our home- the trash heap of Tamriel, where all trash and refuse collects! A mere garbage heap!"

Several argonians hissed angrily.

"So, let me give _you_ a proposition, _General._ If you leave our country right now, relinquish what you have stolen already, and swear by the Hist, Daedra, _and_ your foolish Divines to _never_ return, maybe we won't hunt every last one of you down and slaughter you like sheep!"

Prandus suddenly didn't feel so hot anymore. He felt cold. Very cold. "I cannot do that!" He exclaimed, cursing himself silently as he detected a quaver in his voice. "The Emperor's word is law!

The Argonian made a strange _chut-chut-chut_ noise in his throat, and his eyes narrowed menacingly. "Then there can be only one outcome to these… negotiations." He raised a fist and screeched something in an unintelligible language.

To Prandus' horror, the water surrounding the soldiers began to bubble and froth. The legionaries tensed up, drawing their weapons, their faces paling under their helms.

Prandus drew his sword. The malachite blade had belonged to his grandfather, and the old man had given to him right before he joined the military. It was his most prized possession.

As it slid out of its sheath, the blade shimmered green in the morning light. He hadn't drawn it since they had started towards Carylac, and it was free of the ever-present muck.

From the churning water came Argonians, armed and armored. There were so many that Prandus realized that other settlements and tribes must have lent their forces too, in some sort of giant surprise attack. They formed a rough semicircle around the Imperials, cutting off any hope of retreat. The two armies seemed to be about evenly matched in size, but Prandus did not feel comforted. Argonians had a reputation for being ferocious warriors.

Prandus cursed again. The words of his instructor echoed in his head. _And whatever you do, never,_ _ **never**_ _underestimate your enemy!_ He had led his forces right into a trap! Prandus felt a great shame. His men were going to die because of his stupidity.

No. Failure was not an option. He would not be bested lowly pond-scum!

Prandus knew that the Argonians surely expected him to surrender at this point. Under other circumstances, there was no doubt that he would. But there was just _one_ little problem. There was no _choice_ in the matter.

If they were sent back, most of them would most likely die anyway. They had only a few days' rations left, and it would take at least two weeks to get back, even with them knowing a way to and from the city now. And even if they could get back, the Argonians would build up enough strength around the city to keep it safe from all but the largest of armies in the time it would take to lead more troops out there. They needed to capture the city before then. They had been vastly unprepared for this. And if Prandus knew one thing, it was that occupying Carylac not only meant success; it meant survival.

He straightened his shoulders, braced himself, said a quick prayer, and tried to squish down his deep misgivings about what he was about to do. He stared into the alien eyes of the Argonian speaker, and, somehow, as the golden disks widened a fraction of an inch, he sensed that he knew what he was about to do.

He raised his sword. "For the Empire!" he roared. The soldiers, emboldened by their general's cry, let months (and in many cases, years) of training kick in. With a roar of their own, the Legion charged.

* * *

One of Prandus' legates, a Nord woman with war-paint slashed across her face, fell to the earth, gagging, a barbed arrow in her throat. Prandus bellowed with rage and fired a tongue of flame from his palm. His head gave a painful twinge as the last of his magicka left his body, but he noted with grim satisfaction that the offending warrior screeched and collapsed sideways into the gunk, rolling around in an effort to douse the fire.

The air was ripe with rot, mud, sweat, and blood. Fallen Legionaries and argonians alike were blended together into a battlefield ridden by corpses.

He looked down at the woman, briefly going down to one knee. Sidrif had not only been one of his favorite and most confident soldiers, but also one of his closest friends. With trembling hands, he reached down and closed her eyes. "Safe travels," he murmured. Then he stood. There would be time to grieve later.

He turned and ran to meet another foe, his surviving legates rallying behind him. He heard himself give a primal roar, and others echoed it, battling with renewed vigor.

To his right, a massive, muscle-bound orc swung his Warhammer like a scythe, mowing down a line of archers. A breton mage shot lightning from his staff, blasting another to dust. An arrow suddenly appeared in the chest of the nearest swordsman, courtesy of one of Prandus' own archers.

His mind switched to autopilot, as mechanical as an automaton. Hack. Slash. Parry. Dodge. Kick. His body seemed to move all on its own, cutting down lizard after lizard as his malachite blade shone coldly.

He turned his head, surveying the battle. It was close to noon now, and the sun was high in the sky. It was unbelievably hot, and even the natives seemed a little slowed down by it.

Both sides had suffered many casualties. During the initial heat of the battle, he had met up, by sheer luck (or, perhaps the Divines were in it?), with one of his few cavalrymen. He had been astride his guar, and together, they had fought their way to the outskirts of the fighting. He had sent the man on as fast as he could.

They certainly couldn't count on reinforcements arriving in time to tip the scales of the battle, but Prandus knew that Commander Drakius would want to be informed immediately of what had transpired. He _would_ send more troops, and they would either be welcomed into the city by Prandus' men or they would avenge them. He personally preferred the first possibility.

Something caught his eye. He squinted into the darkness of the marsh. Nothing.

Wait. There it was again!

The flash of sunlight meeting metal! He squinted even harder, trying to see where the flash had originated. He didn't dare hope… surely it was just the sword of a fallen soldier or… something. No. Wait. A figure came into view, stepping into the light. Prandus felt a strange mix of fear and hope swirling in his gut. Had the Commander somehow gotten troops to Carylac in a matter of hours? Or was it a fresh army of Argonians?

The figure drew its sword and lifted it above its head. It glinted green, and he recognized it as a sword of orchish make. He stared, wide-eyed. Argonians didn't use orchish steel. That meant…

Prandus let out a whoop. It was a miracle! He engaged another enemy, jumping backwards as the Argonian swung a mace at him. He felt like a new man. They were saved! He slashed his blade across the unprotected throat of the mace-wielder, and punched his fist into the air triumphantly.

* * *

He felt a sword hit his backside, scratching the steel. He swung around, snarling. He swung his blade across the attacker's face, painting an ugly red stripe on his snout. The Argonian roared in pain and anger. Blood trickled down his chin, staining the green scales. He swung again, and Prandus raced to intercept the weapon.

Malachite met steel with a clang. Prandus flinched in surprise at the jarring impact traveling up his arm, and the Argonian did the same. Clearly, neither of them were used to an opponent matching their strength.

Prandus studied his opponent more carefully now, as the cross-guards of their swords stayed locked in a deadly contest. His opponent was heavily built, with scales the color of rich green jungle moss. Unlike his comrades, he wore a black leather suit with strange red symbols and markings sewn into it. He was bloodstained, but there was not a scratch on his body, save for his face.

 _He must be some kind of specialized soldier,_ thought Prandus. He was clearly skilled enough to have a special rank. He stared directly into the reptile's eyes and felt a chill tingle down his spine. They were blood-red , analyzing him with predatory intelligence.

The strangely garbed Argonian suddenly tuggedhis weapon away from his, almost costing him his footing. He brought up his sword just in time, deflecting the Argonian's attack.

Their blades met again and again, twirling and slicing and twisting with blinding speed. The Argonian knocked his sword to the side and swiped directly at Prandus' face with his claws.

"Gah!" Prandus yelled, stumbling backwards, bringing his free hand to his face. He felt the Argonian kick him in his armored stomach and he went down, feeling the impact even through the steel.

With a tug, his helmet came off, and Prandus looked up into the eyes of the one who had bested him as their blade came to rest over his throat.

A large, towering Argonian stepped in front of him. He wore leather like his opponent, except it seemed more elaborately embroidered with the strange symbols. In one hand, he held an orchish-steel longsword that most men would have had trouble lifting with two. He was clearly the leader. "General Prandussssss," he hissed, the triumph in his gaze so evident that even Prandus could read it, "you have been bessssssted, and your forssssssesssss have been defeated. Ssssssurender, or die."

Prandus glanced around, not moving his head much for fear of slitting his own throat against the Argonian's blade. To his astonishment, he was surrounded by enemy troops, the ones from Carylac and ones in dark leather alike. He saw what remained of his men together in a huddle, their numbers barely over a hundred, looking scared out of their minds.

He felt a great hollowness in his heart. He looked back at the leader. "Where did you get that sword?" He asked. The leader admired his weapon. "Claimed it," he said matter-of-factly. "From one of your ssssoldiers, a few battlesss ago. Cut better than my old one, so I took it. You can make good ssswordsssss."

"Um, thank you," Prandus stuttered.

"Anyway," the leader continued, "sssssurrender now, or, if you prefer, we will obliterate you. If you give up, we will sssssend you on your way, with a messssssssage for your Emperor. Choossse now. I will not ask again."

"We surrender, we surrender!" Prandus spluttered. "What is your message?"

"Good choissssssse," the leader said. "Now, lisssssten very carefully. Tell your Emperor thissss: 'If you withdraw your sssoldiers from Argonia now, our resssissstance will cssssssease. We will let you annexxx usss into your Empire and ssssend in people to govern ussss. Whoever claimsss to be the ruler of our country matters little to usss. You may lissst us asss part of your Empire in mapssss and hissstory booksss, but Argonia can never truly be tamed. We jusssst asssk that you leave usss be. We had no quarrel with you before you invaded our homeland, and we won't now either, if you withdraw, ssso sssay the Argonians of 'Black Marsh'."

* * *

In the eight-hundredth and seventy-eighth year of the Second Era, Argonia, commonly known as Black Marsh, became a province of the Empire of Tiber Septim. The Empire rises and falls. The great continent of Tamriel suffers war after war. The battle of Carylac fades into an embarrassing memory, kept quiet by the Empire. Nearly six-hundred and thirty years pass. It is now the Fourth Era. And a new story begins…


End file.
